


Another Cliche - Running Out of Gas

by Evil_Little_Dog



Category: In Plain Sight
Genre: Community: mary_marshall, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:44:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Little_Dog/pseuds/Evil_Little_Dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Another cliche fic...just like the title says.<br/>Disclaimer:  Mary and Marshall don't belong to me, and I am certainly not making money off of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Cliche - Running Out of Gas

“Did you even _check_ the tank before we started out here?” Mary couldn’t believe it. “I mean, you’re Marshall Mann. You prepare for everything. And you said you’d take care of everything!”

He narrowed his eyes at her, his mouth tight as he said, “I wasn’t in charge of renting this car, nor was I aware the fuel gauge indicator wasn’t working.” 

“You should’ve known! I mean, we’ve gone almost four hundred miles, and the gauge didn’t change?” Mary slapped the dashboard. “And now we’re out in the middle of fucking nowhere, with no cell coverage, and a witness waiting for pick up.” 

Marshall sighed. “If you bring up Lola,” he said.

“You’re the one who brought him up!” Mary pointed out. “Besides, it’s not like it’s taboo.” She hesitated, thinking of Marshall, and him being shot, and how being trapped in that gas station felt. Maybe it ought to be taboo. 

“So, since you have all the answers,” Marshall said, “how do you propose we get out of this little predicament?” 

“I could make you walk back to the nearest town,” Mary said. 

“Me?” 

“You were the one driving, therefore, you get to walk.” It made sense to her. 

Marshall drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I think what we should do,” he said, “is roll down the windows, and wait. Someone will drive by eventually, and we currently have food, water, and shelter.” 

Snorting, Mary said, “And a car in the hot sun is a deathtrap.” 

“And a car in the desert at night isn’t a deathtrap, and keeps us from wandering into sidewinders, or cactus, or coyotes.” 

“If you say we could get eaten by dingoes,” Mary glared.

“I’d rather not chance dingoes,” Marshall said, “even if they’re indigenous to Australia, rather than the American southwest.” 

“Oh, god.” 

“Did you know dingoes have wrists more like a human being? They can rotate their wrists and have been known to open doors. Also, they can’t bark. They howl to communicate.” Mary gave him a pained look that did nothing to stop the words flowing from her partner’s mouth. “Also, they have permanently pricked or erect ears – what?”

“You said ‘erect’,” Mary snorted.

Marshall’s mouth thinned again. “What are you, twelve?”

Mary smiled, sarcastic and brilliant. 

“God, why do I put up with this?”

“I think I ought to be asking that question, Marshall. Seriously. Coyotes to dingoes?” 

“They’re both common wild dogs for their areas.” He spread his hands. “I tried.” 

“At least you didn’t bring up werewolves attacking us in the desert.”

Marshall craned his head. “No full moon tonight.”

“No silver bullets, either,” Mary said. 

“I guess we just have the coyotes to listen to, then. And hope they haven’t developed wrists like dingoes.” 

Mary sighed. “Did you check the trunk? Maybe there’s gas back there. In a gas can. Or something.” 

“I’m sure gas doesn’t appear out of thin air,” Marshall said. “And who travels with a full gas can? That can be dangerous.”

“This isn’t a Ford Pinto,” Mary reminded him. “C’mon, pop the trunk.” She opened the door, dropping her feet onto the sticky tarmac. “God, I hate it when the asphalt gets overheated.” Walking to the back of the trunk, she slapped the warm metal. “Open up!” 

The trunk lid popped open and Mary pushed it up to peer inside. Nothing of interest, much to her disgust; there was a gas can but no gas in it, a scrap of paper that the detailers had missed, a scuffed up patch on the carpet, and a flicker of light that shone on the inside of the lid. Turning, Mary watched as a pickup drew near, slowing down and stopping next to them. 

“Car trouble, eh?” a young man called through the window of his truck, from his coloring either Native American or Mexican. 

“Out of gas,” Marshall said, getting out of the car. “You wouldn’t be able to give us a lift, would you? I’d be happy to pay for your time.” 

“Sure, go ahead and lock up, and I’ll take you.” He reached across to open the door while Marshall locked up the car. 

Mary glanced through the door of the truck, and muttered to Marshall, “There’s a stick shift.” 

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not playing ‘dodge the stick’.” 

“You’re not staying here, either, Mar. It’s hot, like you said.” 

“Marshall, you sit in the middle.” 

“Ah, ah, my legs are longer than yours. You get the hump. Ha!” He grinned. “I said ‘hump’.” 

Mary slapped him in the ribs, making him wince. “What are you, twelve? Geeze, Marshall!” Scrambling into the truck, she swung her legs into the passenger wheel well as Marshall climbed in after her. They fought over the small amount of space, Mary winding up with her toes tucked under Marshall’s calves. She reminded herself it was better than waiting in the car. At least until she had to dodge the stickshift. 

“I knew I should’ve made you walk,” she muttered as Marshall grinned.


End file.
